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Untold Tales of the Mark: The Banishment of Éomer  by Katzilla

Chapter 30: Battle Plans


EDORAS

Numb in mind and body from the horrible scenes she had been forced to witness, Éowyn offered no resistance as the guards brought her back to her cell and sat down on the wooden bench that served as the laughable imitation of a bed. Not that she expected being able to sleep anytime soon. What she had experienced in those past few days alone would probably suffice for a lifetime of nightmares, and she had the distinct notion that she had not even witnessed yet all the cruelty her adversary was capable of. Involuntarily rubbing her arms to restart the circulation of blood to her hands after the guards’ cruel grip, the King’s niece stared wordlessly into the flickering twilight until the echoing of steps died down and the distant thunder of a shutting door told her that they were alone again in their part of the dungeon.

“What happened?” Elfhelm asked at once, his tone and expression tense as he lifted his head. “What did he want from you?”

“To show me to his enemies. Me and Céorl,” Éowyn replied in a flat voice, still seeing the scene vividly in front of her inner eyes: the horror in Éothain’s eyes when she had been presented like a trophy, and his anguished outburst when the Worm had confronted him with his severely wounded father. For a moment, she had prayed that Éothain would order the attack regardless of the Worm’s threats and end this farce of a Dunlending-held Meduseld, no matter how high the price. But even before he had answered to Wormtongue’s challenge, deep inside Éowyn had known that the young Captain would never dare to endanger his kin and friends even before she had seen his strikingly blue eyes cloud over with the signs of defeat.

With a soundless sigh, the daughter of Éomund tilted her head to face the chained warrior in the opposite cell. The man her adversary would use to break her, she held no illusions in this regard. She could not yet imagine the torture the Worm would submit Elfhelm to in order to bend her to his will, but the half-breed’s inventiveness was beyond doubt. Would she be able to stay strong upon having to hear the anguished cries of the man whom she had known since early childhood when Elfhelm had served as an ordinary rider under her father? The man her brother regarded as his mentor? Her blood ran cold at the thought, and she fought to push it away for the time being. She would be faced with the reality of it soon enough. Lifting her chin, Éowyn sought the Captain’s gaze, forcing herself to answer his question with the calmest voice she could manage. It would not help their situation if she broke down now.

“Éothain and his riders threatened to storm Meduseld, and they were accompanied by many angered citizens. It seems that finally, they are no longer willing to tolerate his reign. They challenged Gríma, but I’m afraid that the Worm once again held the sharper weapon in his hands. He threatened to kill Céorl and me if they attacked, and Éothain would not dare it… I almost wish that he had. He places the worth of our lives higher than that of all citizens combined. That cannot be right. I do not want my life bought with that of dozens of our people.”

“Don’t blame him,” Elfhelm soothed. “I would have acted the same way. Most of us would have. The filth knows that. It is our weakness, but it is a weakness I am proud of. We Rohirrim care for each other, and will never abandon our kin and friends lightly; it is for this reason that our people still endure after five hundred years of hardship. If we gave up more easily, we would have perished a long time ago. So, I say that this weakness is, in fact, our strength. Our enemies fear us for our determination.” He fell silent, trying to think, although it became increasingly more difficult with the pounding pain in his head and the intensifying thirst and hunger. The gashes he had sustained in the fight did not bother him much yet, but they added to his overall weakness and Elfhelm knew that they would get infected if he did not see a healer soon. “So, Éothain retreated, you say.”

“Yes. He threatened to kill Wormtongue’s men if they leave the hall for water and supplies, but I don’t think they will…” Nervously chewing on her lower lip, Éowyn recalled what she had seen. “It looked to me as if the filth counted on such an outcome and made the necessary arrangements long beforehand. I saw many sacks and large vessels stacked in the throne room when they led me to the door… as if Gríma expected a siege. I would not be surprised if he emptied the entire storage shed. If Éothain thinks he can get to him this way, I fear that he will be mistaken.” Her attention returned to Elfhelm, and if possible, her bearing became even tenser. “Still, I cannot shake the impression that Wormtongue does not count on a long siege… One of his remarks made me wonder whether he knew something no one else has an inkling of yet.”

“You mean that he is waiting for something to happen? Or for someone to arrive to solve the problem for him?” Elfhelm inhaled, and his frown deepened. “Even if he got his greedy fingers onto all of Edoras’ supplies, holing up in Meduseld will not get him out of danger. He has to know that sooner or later, our people will find a way to get to him, even if they have to turn every little pebble the hill consists of to find the secret tunnels in the rock. No, he is waiting for his master armies, or perhaps even his master himself will come here.” The thought of the White Wizard upon the threshold of Edoras robbed him of his breath. What would the necromancer do to their people once he took possession of the City of Kings?

“Could it be that they are already on the way?” Éowyn forced herself to remain composed even if the images of bleeding people and the burning city suddenly overwhelming her mind sickened her. “Could it be that the Westfold is already ablaze with war and its inhabitants dead, and that the plains are swarming with orcs marching for Edoras?” She stared at the shackled warrior and saw the paralysing dread she felt herself mirrored in his eyes. “We have no way of knowing, Elfhelm, but I fear that it might be so. The wheels are turning and the last pieces of Wormtongue’s plan have fallen into place, and there is nothing left to do for him now but wait for the host that will murder his foes and free him. That is why he was so calm when Éothain challenged him: there is no need for him to leave Meduseld. Without a miracle, in a few days the Riddermark will be a deserted wasteland bereft of human life, and he knows it.” The sheer enormity of her sudden realisation choked her.

“Béma…” Stunned by the same imagery, Elfhelm stared into to flickering semi-darkness. Éowyn’s assumption made perfect sense. Shaking his head as he fought to subdue the terrible cries and pictures threatening to flood his mind, he lifted his head with an effort, involuntarily grimacing at the stinging of his wounds. “But such a miracle… who should bring it to us? Your brother?” His expression left no question that he did no longer believe Éomer to be alive, and his hopeless demeanour caused a sharp bolt of pain to pierce Éowyn’s heart. If not even the always optimistic Captain of Eastfold believed in her brother any more… She could not speak, choking despair leaving her mouth dry like sand.

“I assume that we can forget about Gondor coming to our aid,” Elfhelm meanwhile continued, looking through her as he wrecked his brain for a flicker of hope that would help to carry them through the darkness of these days. “They did not answer to any of our calls for a long time. Like the Steward’s son said, they are hard-pressed themselves to repel the enemy again and again and can spare none of their soldiers. Not that I believe that they would send them even if things were different. Gondor has long forgotten about our old alliance. Five hundred years have passed since Éorl’s glorious ride, and to many of that high folk, it is barely more now than an ancient myth. A tale for their children when they take them to bed, but not something founded in reality. Nowadays, those fine people think of us as barely more civilised than the hillfolk. We are savages to them, not worthy of their allegiance.”

“If that is what they believe, then both Gondor and Rohan will fall,” Éowyn said lowly. “Do they not understand that the war will come to them from both sides if they allow the necromancer’s armies to slaughter us? Our foes are the same, why then do we not fight together?” She waited for another reply, and when none came, looked to the side to see Elfhelm’s face contorted into a pained grimace, his eyes tightly shut. The sight of his distress chased a shudder down her spine and she jumped to her feet. “Lord Elfhelm?”

He groaned.

“Forgive me, my Lady. It is just my head. That coward whom the Worm calls his right hand hit me with something heavy last night when they captured us. Not to worry, I’ve experienced hangovers that were decidedly worse than this; it takes more to take me down.” Éowyn’s gaze was still sceptical when he looked up, and to divert her attention from his problems, the Captain of Eastfold decided to change the topic of their conversation. “How was Céorl faring when you saw him? You said that the Worm used him, too, as a shield against Éothain. Could he walk by himself?”

Her expression even graver than the one with which she had regarded him, Éowyn shook her head.

“He seemed to be barely conscious and had to be supported by two men to walk. I fear for him. He needs a healer urgently, but I doubt that Wormtongue will allow Yalanda to see him. If he gets no help…” She had not the heart to finish the sentence, but the Captain of Eastfold understood her regardless, and he evaded her compassionate gaze. Summoning what strength was left in him, he inhaled deeply and then shouted into the darkness: “Céorl? If you can hear me, Brother, then answer me!” Anxiously, they both listened into the ensuing silence. “Céorl?”

Another breathless moment passed, and then a faint echo answered them, and it was a voice they recognised, even if it wasn’t the one of the Captain of Edoras; its words so distorted that they were almost impossible to understand.

“That must be Gamling,” Éowyn said tonelessly.

“Aye, but could you understand what he said?”

“I am not sure…” Her large eyes wide filled with dread. “But I think he said that Céorl no longer answers him either. And they are in the same corridor…”

--------------------------

WHITE MOUNTAINS

Loose pieces of a distant conversation trickled into Éomer’s refuge from outside, gradually waking him from the state of dozing which had overwhelmed him after the meal and the intense conversation with Freya. The young woman’s difficult situation had even followed him into sleep, resulting in a strange dream where he and Osred had entered into a shouting match about who had first mentally deserted the farmers’ daughter. Glad to leave the disturbing scene behind as he woke to the reality of his room, Éomer soon recognised with relief Aragorn’s calm and at the same time firm voice as he spoke with Halad, and yet he already caught an undercurrent of urgency in the ranger’s tone that troubled him deeply enough to reach for the edge of the mattress in an effort to sit up.

“Lord Aragorn! Thanks be to Béma, you have returned! We already feared for the worst because you were gone for such a long time… But I see that you found your friend.”

“Our apologies, Halad. Yes, all is well with us, but we made a discovery that needed our attention, and I am afraid that we return with bad tidings. Can you please go and fetch your wife and Osred and meet us in the main house? We must talk immediately, and it would help if all were present. A decision needs to be made at once.”

In the muted twilight of the children’s room, Éomer struggled to push himself up against the headrest of the bed, the cold hand of fear clenching his innards at the thought of what the ranger had found. When the door opened at last and Aragorn’s serious face appeared in the gap to find out whether he was awake, Éomer saw his worst assumptions confirmed in the other man’s gaze even before the words had left the ranger’s mouth. The question of who the three travellers had run into had just been answered. Swallowing, the Rohir asked the only other question he could think of his state of stunned shock.

“How many?”

“Twenty-five. And they will be here soon.”

--------------------------------

Following the ranger’s brief recapitulation of their encounter with the enemy, the silence in the room cramped with anxious people was thick enough to cut through, and for the longest time, only the innocent crackling of the fire could be heard. Already feeling exhausted even from the few steps over to the living room he had taken with the massive help of Halad and Aragorn, Éomer leant against the wall and looked at the Dunádan from his improved cot on the ground with the feeling that the bottom of his stomach had just dropped out. It was not as if he had not expected for the enemy to find him. The orcs’ senses were sharp, and the strong winds must have carried his scent halfway across the Ered Nimrais while he had first battled the elements and finally lain in the snow for hours, long enough for them to estimate his location. He had not wanted to pull Freya’s family into this mess, but there seemed to be little that could be done about it now.

“Twenty-five orcs! And you are sure that they are headed our way? They could not be just passing through on the way to Aldburg?” Osred, too, stared open-mouthed at the ranger, all blood drained from his face. He then checked the expressions of the man’s strange friends, involuntarily hoping to find a hint there that it was only a very cruel joke. Of course, he found none.

“Alas, I fear that it is so.” Aragorn’s gaze wandered over the family’s faces, feeling pity for their hosts. The two small children sat huddled on their parents’ laps, their little faces pressed against their shoulders in a vain search for cover. Aragorn knew better. Once the enemy’s host entered this vale, there would be no hiding. It was either running or making a stand, a decision they’d have to reach very quickly. “We attempted to lead them away, but the effort was unsuccessful.” He lowered his gaze to regard Éomer, who nodded silently upon listening to his words, knowing the enemy too well himself. “Orcs hunt mainly by scent, and though our tracks were not to be missed, they did not care for them.”

“Of course not. It is me they want,” Éomer stated grimly, his insides clenching into a tight knot as all faces turned to him. He ignored them as best he could, although the frightened expressions were painful to behold, and looked at Aragorn instead. “How far away were they when you left them?”

“About halfway between the cave where you slew their brethren and where we found you. I would say no further than five leagues from here.”

“Five leagues!” Osred cried, and his son’s little hands clenched in his shirt. The child whimpered with fright. “But then they are already on our doorstep!”

“They were moving slowly though,” Legolas added in an attempt to calm him. “They are wary after finding their dead brothers, and very cautious not to run into a trap. We tried to get close enough to reduce their number, but the wind worked against us. If they proceed in this fashion, they should arrive here somewhere during the night.”

“Then we must flee,” the farmer decided with a glance at the frightened expressions of the members of his family. “There are yet a few more hours of daylight left; if we saddle the horses now, we could make it to our neighbours before nightfall. And tomorrow--”

“No.”

With a sinking feeling in his stomach at the sound of Freya’s fearful and yet determined voice, Éomer stared into the fire. He knew what would follow; after all, he had already witnessed himself how this shy and vulnerable looking woman had fended off wargs with a hayfork to protect her kin. She would not run, even if he desperately wished her to leave.

“No. This is the farm of my parents, and of their parents before them. My family has lived in this for generations; building and adding to it in uncountable hours of hard work. If we run now and leave it unprotected, those things will burn it and slaughter our stock, and there will be nothing left for us to return to. We will be uprooted like so many before us; we will be left without a home, and more people will starve because we can no longer supply them with food.” Clutching her daughter in obvious distress, Freya stared at Éomer, her expression confrontational. “You know how important our farm is in sustaining the people in the mountains, Éomer! You cannot seriously consider abandoning it without a fight!”

“You do not suggest that we stay here, Freya, do you?” Osred threw in, not wanting to believe his ears. “Or do you value this farm higher than even the lives of your loved-ones? I am not even talking about myself here, but your children and your sisters. Do you believe that your home is worth more than their lives? ”

“You do not know what is coming at you, Freya,” Éomer rebuked, for once ignoring Osred although he supported his position. “Twenty-five enemies—“

“We can defeat them, Aragorn!” Almost expectantly, Gimli fondled the haft of his axe, apparently the only one not dismayed at the prospect of a fight upon the farm’s grounds. “Twenty-five orcs, that makes only five for each of us if we count the Rohir and him in.” He looked at Osred. “We’ve been faced with grimmer odds.”

“I can fight, too!” Halad piped up, but Éomer was faster when he asked Aragorn:

“Where there only orcs, or where there Uruk-hai among them?”

“Most of them were Uruk-hai, I fear.”

“Freya…” Determinedly shaking his head, Éomer turned back to their anxiously listening host. “Listen to me: you must leave. Osred is right, it is too great a risk. Take your horses and put as many leagues between them and you as you can. And bear in mind that it will not be safe at your neighbour’s farm either; come dawn, you will have to proceed, and your neighbours, too. There is no stopping a host of twenty-five Uruk-hai without the help of an éored. Trust me, I know! I fought but one of them, and he almost killed me!” He shifted his attention back at Aragorn. “One of us should ride ahead and alert the riders in the closest settlements. We are halfway between Aldburg and Captain Erkenbrand’s stronghold, so--”

“We killed far more than twenty-five Uruk-hai at Amon Hen, Aragorn!” Gimli tried again, his gaze travelling over his friends and the banished Rohir, whose brow creased in anger over his intrusion. To Aragorn’s left, Legolas nodded thoughtfully. “If you and the elf diminish their numbers with your bows from a distance first, we will not even have to face twenty-five in a battle one-on-one. And since they do not know that we are here, we will have the advantage of surprise! They think they will face some unarmed farmers without battle experience. If we use their haughtiness to our advantage, we can make short process of them. Think about it!”

“It would still be a great risk,” the Dunádan said, unconvinced.

“But he is right,” Freya hurried to say, slanting the dwarf a brief, thankful glance before she addressed her brother: “Halad, you and Fleadwyn and Willa and Wyndra will ride, and you will take Loégar and Edilda with you.” She turned around to Osred, sad but determined. “And you ride too, if you must, Osred, but I will stay. I was born here, and if the gods have decided that I should die here, then I will, but I will not let them destroy my home without a fight.”

“And I will stay, too,” Halad said, and looked at his younger sisters whom he knew as able-bodied riders. “Willy, Wyndra, you and Fleadwyn will ride, and you take Loégar and Edilda.” He felt his wife tense beside him and wrapped her even closer in his embrace as he looked at the man he had regarded as an older brother for a long time. “Éomer, you taught me yourself to fight. You even gifted me with a sword. You need me here. What did you prepare us for all these years if not for this case?”

“You do not understand, Halad. These are Uruks; they are far more powerful than ordinary orcs. I fought one of them in the caves, and he almost killed me although I am much more adept at battle than you. I do not want you killed.”

“And I do not want to leave my home, and my sister, defenceless!”

“You will not have to leave her because we will all leave!” Osred threw in, glaring at Freya. “And I will hear no more!”

“I will not abandon my home, and that is my last word!”

Helplessly listening to the family quarrel while he stared at Aragorn and simultaneously wrecked his brain for a solution, Éomer suddenly found it: ”I will ride.” Disregarded the deepening lines on the older man’s brow, he continued with sudden enthusiasm: “It is me they want. So it is I alone who can lead them away from here.”





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